


I don't belong to you, you don't belong to me (so don't hold on too tightly)

by faithtastic



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Comfort Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Grief, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela consoles Hawke the only way she knows how. Contains spoilers for All That Remains, Act II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't belong to you, you don't belong to me (so don't hold on too tightly)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from the Roisin Murphy song 'Let Me Know'. Also, this turned out way pornier than I'd originally intended. Oops.

Isabela's limbs feel as leaden as the sombre mood that's fallen over the Hawke estate. Where normally Bodahn would've greeted her with cheerful smalltalk, all she gets is a grim nod and the statement that, "Messere Hawke hasn't left her room in days" as he comforts a piteously forlorn-looking Sandal.

She knows the others have been to visit, to pay their respects to Leandra, and it's taken Isabela two days and a not inconsiderable amount of cheap Antivan port to work up the nerve to come here. Emotions are messy, especially grief, and she's always held fast to the philosophy that feelings are for _other_ people and she should far remove herself from any situation that involves them as quickly as her legs (or sails) will carry her.

Yet here she is, a certain dread forming in the pit of her stomach, because Hawke is a friend; maybe the first true one she's had in years. It's the reason she's set aside her own discomfort to come here, not because of Aveline's silently judgemental stare or Merrill's attempts to cajole her into it.

As she ascends the staircase, one hand on the banister, her palm skims over the lewd engraving she'd made almost as soon as Hawke had moved into the estate several months ago. She pauses a moment to admire her handiwork. At some point Hawke or someone else has tried to disguise its true meaning, hastily embellishing it with a stem and some crudely carved leaves but, to anyone with even half a clue about a woman's body, it's as clear as day.

It's a mystery why Hawke hasn't just had the thing sanded down and the banister revarnished. But that's Hawke all over, really, isn't it? An enigmatic prude.

Isabela continues upwards, halting once she reaches the threshold of Hawke's bedroom. Framed through the open doorway she sees Hawke sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed and shoulders hunched over, face hidden by a curtain of unwashed blonde hair. It's a far cry from the last time Isabela was here, legs wrapped around Hawke's waist, lips and tongue doing avid battle as they staggered backwards to the bed. She's still rather impressed that a woman as slight as Hawke was able to carry her with such ease but there's deceptive strength in that slender frame.

Taking a deep breath, Isabela steps forward and makes her presence known. "I... uh, I feel I should say... something."

Hawke looks up briefly and the empty sorrow in her expression strikes Isabela with almost physical force. She's never seen Hawke cry but the aftermath of tears - the puffy, red-rimmed eyes, the blotchy cheeks, the dull glaze over normally brilliant blue - is readily apparent. The mage drops her gaze when she speaks, "You don't have to do this. I know you're not good at... emotional stuff."

Typical Hawke, gracious to a fault, tacitly providing Isabela with an avenue of escape. Part of her longs to take it, just about-turn to the Hanged Man and leave the other woman to her mourning.

"At least your mother loved you. Not everyone can say that." If there's an undertone of bitterness to Isabela's words, Hawke doesn't acknowledge it. In truth, Isabela hardly knew Leandra but the deceased woman's dedication to her children, the sacrifices and hardships she'd endured to ensure their safety, was without question. Isabela wasn't there - at the Foundry - when it all went down but by Varric's account it was horrific and, for once, the dwarf wasn't exaggerating. She can't imagine what Hawke's going through, having lost her entire immediate family in the space of a few years; Isabela hardly has adequate words to express her sympathy and it's part of the reason she's kept her distance.

"So this is what it's like to be an orphan."

Isabela sits gingerly beside Hawke. "Family's not just the people you're related to by blood," she says in her kindest, gentlest tone, the one usually reserved for explaining sex-related things to Merrill. "There are other people who care about you." For the first time since Isabela's entered the room Hawke fully meets her gaze and the despair she sees there makes Isabela's stomach twist unexpectedly. She looks away. "Like... Aveline."

Before the other woman can read too much into her words Isabela stands, ready to beat a hasty exit. "Well, there's a flagon of watered-down whiskey waiting for me back at - "

Hawke's hand on her wrist stops her. "Stay." It's said in a hoarse whisper, hardly audible above the crackling fire.

"I think I've proven I'm not much good at consoling chats," Isabela says lightly, though she hesitates. "I'll ask Merrill to stop by. She's better at all this."

"I don't want to talk."

One sharp tug on Isabela's wrist later and she's on Hawke's lap, straddling her, too caught by surprise to prevent the mage from crushing their mouths together as Hawke's hands settle firmly on Isabela's waist. "I just want to forget for a little while," Hawke mutters between ardent kisses.

Intellectually, Isabela knows this falls into the category of 'very bad idea' but Hawke's warm hands and warmer lips are very persuasive. Even so, that niggling annoyance called a conscience chooses this moment to rear its head. She reluctantly pulls away, bracing one hand against Hawke's shoulder to hold off her advance.

"Hawke... I never thought I'd hear myself saying this but... I don't think we should."

"You're not taking advantage of me, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not some delicate flower." Hawke leans in, attempting to capture Isabela's lips again but she holds firm. A crease appears between dark blonde brows as Hawke stares at Isabela in incredulous disbelief. "Don't pretend you don't want this too. I've seen you staring at me."

"I stare at _everyone_."

If she's been watching Hawke rather too closely it's because she admires the woman (an apostate mage leading a rag-tag group of misfits, doing good deeds and righting wrongs, even if it's distressingly not for profit most of the time) definitely not because she's _infatuated_ ; that would involve caring rather more deeply than Isabela would ever allow herself. It's purely coincidental that Hawke's devastatingly beautiful, endlessly supportive of her friends no matter how much trouble they bring to her door, not to mention a fantastic lay, even if she _is_ a royal pain in the arse intent on pushing her dreary morality and good intentions on all and sundry.

It happened months ago, their previous tryst, what Isabela had assumed would be their first and only time together and even then she hadn't really expected Hawke to follow through on the heavy flirtation and fall into bed with her; more often than not Isabela comes on too strong and scares off her quarry (or gets a slap in the face for her efforts). Since then there's been an unspoken agreement that discussion of that night is off-limits and Isabela's continued on her merry way, sweet-talking men, women and elves with occasional success.

The flirtation has continued, no less overt, but Isabela's put any serious thoughts of having another-go-round out of her head. Until now.

"No, this is different," Hawke asserts with a shake of her head. She drags Isabela closer by the hips until there isn't an inch between Isabela's mound and Hawke's firm, flat stomach. Her body reacts immediately, a bloom of heat settling between her legs. "You look at me like there's something you want and you don't know how to ask for it."

Denial rises on her lips because Isabela doesn't bend her rules for anyone, doesn't ever let _feelings_ enter the picture. Except that she's here, letting this happen against her better judgement, so that must mean something.

The grip on Hawke's shoulder slackens somewhat when Hawke's hand shifts, roaming up Isabela's side, skimming over a breast and sliding over her collarbone. Isabela's sure she feels the faintest tingle of electrical magic under Hawke's fingertips and she finds herself rolling her hips, seeking friction, because, _fuck_ , that's something new.

So when Hawke moves in to kiss her this time Isabela doesn't resist, instead tangling fingers in loose, messy golden hair and opening her mouth to the insistent swipe of the other woman's tongue.

While the kiss deepens, as Hawke's tongue teases and swirls around her own, Isabela becomes aware of agile fingers plucking at the laces of her corset and tunic, pulling the constricting fabric away from her skin just enough to give the mage easier access. Soft hands cover Isabela's breasts, the first brush of warm skin against the already taut buds of her nipples loosening a groan from her throat.

Hawke's touch quickly turns possessive; grasping and kneading Isabela's breasts, rolling her nipples with open palms. It's completely at odds with the insufferably prim and proper noblewoman that Hawke presents herself as to the world and Isabela can't help but find the contrast unbearably erotic.

And, Maker, she hadn't known she'd been missing this, _Hawke_ , until now.

One hand abandons her breast, slipping under the hem of her tunic to cup Isabela between the legs; Hawke exhales sharply, finding smallclothes damp with arousal. The kiss breaks, allowing them a moment to stare at each other as they take in some much needed air, and the sight of Hawke's blown pupils ringed by only a thin sliver of blue makes Isabela shift her hips, pressing herself impossibly closer.

She almost whines in protest when Hawke removes her hand in order to begin removing Isabela's armour, making short work of the various buckles that hold the pauldron, arm guard and elbow guard in place. Growing impatient, Isabela helps move things along by pulling off her leather gloves and the blue sash from around her waist. Finally, Hawke pulls the tunic up and over Isabela's head, taking the headscarf with it, leaving her in nothing but black smallclothes, the red rag knotted around her bicep and thigh-high boots.

When Isabela's attention turns to the buckles at her thighs, Hawke clutches her wrist. "Don't."

Hawke's cheeks flush a very becoming shade of pink but Isabela just smirks knowingly. "Whatever you say, sweet thing."

Mercifully the mage is a lot faster to undress; all Isabela has to do is pull the thin wool robe apart, baring an expanse of golden skin to her eager gaze. Hawke stares back at her, blue eyes tracking slowly downwards, and Isabela's never seen the other woman look so... heated, as if Hawke's seconds away from ravishing her.

Then Hawke's lips are on her again, at once demanding entrance with her tongue to deepen the kiss. As a rule Isabela isn't one to let herself be dominated but she's willing to let it slide, given the circumstances; besides, it's been a while since she's felt the touch of a woman and if Hawke wants to top, well, Isabela isn't going to quibble over it.

While Hawke explores her mouth Isabela lets her hands wander, smoothing over lightly tanned skin, tracing the bones of Hawke's shoulders before slipping down the slope of her back. She scrapes her nails lightly down Hawke's spine, feeling the shudder that ripples through the mage's body. Hawke relinquishes her lips and moves to Isabela's jaw, planting open mouthed kisses down the line of her throat, alternating between nipping and sucking at the tender flesh as her own hands seek out Isabela's breasts again. Soon lips take over, Hawke's warm mouth enveloping one nipple; teeth rake against the sensitive nub before Hawke's tongue darts out to flick over and around it, causing Isabela to cry out.

She becomes dimly aware of her hips moving, grinding uselessly against air. “Hawke,” she practically growls, hoping the other woman will take the hint but Hawke just turns her attention to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same treatment. So Isabela grabs one of Hawke's hands and shoves it meaningfully between her legs.

The noise this wrenches from Hawke – part groan, part gasp – is all the confirmation Isabela needs that her smallclothes are ruined. Next thing she knows, the sodden material's being literally ripped from her person and tossed away.

"Damn it, Hawke," she mutters, torn between irritation and being insanely turned on. "You owe me a pair of knickers."

Hawke's only response is to slide two fingers into her up to the knuckle, no preamble. The pace she sets is hard and fast, the heel of her hand rubbing against Isabela's clit with each slam of her fingers, making her breath hitch. If the angle is awkward Hawke doesn't complain, just latches her mouth to Isabela's and kisses her thoroughly.

Isabela's hands come to the other woman's shoulders to steady herself as she rides Hawke's jutting fingers and isn't long before she feels pressure building within, inner muscles clenching as she tries to draw Hawke deeper. There's a tingling sensation – _magic_ , sweet Maker - and that added stimulus is enough to send her hurtling over the precipice of release. She comes with a hoarse, prolonged shout, spending herself all over Hawke's hand.

She collapses against Hawke, whose arms encircle her, and tries to catch her breath. Long minutes pass, the warmth of Hawke's skin seeping into Isabela, the quick, steady thud of a heartbeat vibrating under her palm where it rests on the mage's chest.

Eventually Isabela pulls back, uncertain what to say, finding words clogged in her throat. She doesn't know what to think about the way Hawke's looking at her now, the soft eyes and gentle smile a stark contrast to the wanton lust Hawke had taken her with mere moments ago, how it makes her feel like a hurricane's blown through her and left devastation in its wake.

She feels unravelled, unbalanced and a sudden need to regain her equilibrium.

"Let me take care of you," Isabela says, chagrined at how shaky her voice sounds, how it betrays her. She ducks the kiss Hawke tries to lay on her and presses the other woman firmly back against the sheets.

Keeping her eyes locked on Hawke's, Isabela reaches down between them, fingertips skimming through soaked curls to dip between the other woman's legs. Hawke's so incredibly wet that it makes Isabela croon in delight.

"Please, Isabela," the mage breathes out shakily.

Isabela leans down, full breasts pressing deliciously against Hawke's smaller but no less impressive ones, to bring her lips to Hawke's ear. "Tell me what you want," she whispers before running her tongue along the ticklish outer edge.

"I..." Hawke lifts her hips meaningfully, trying to increase the contact of Isabela's immobile fingers against her slick centre. " _Isabela_."

"It's so precious how you act like a blushing Chantry sister, but I know you know how this goes," Isabela chuckles. She moves her fingers, just a little, just enough to make Hawke gasp and writhe against her. "You only have to ask and I'll make your toes curl."

"I... I want you... inside me," Hawke admits haltingly as she reaches for Isabela's hand, pressing herself intimately against it.

A grin edges across Isabela's lips as she draws back. “That's my girl.”

Not that she gives in straight away. Instead she mouths a meandering path down Hawke's chest, kissing a trail of fire over flushed skin, pausing to drag her tongue over straining nipples and biting down with just enough pressure to make Hawke shudder; she continues south, enjoying the way Hawke's practically undulating beneath her, until she settles between the mage's wide-spread thighs.

The sight of Hawke, open and swollen and ready for her, makes Isabela salivate. Above her she hears Hawke's breath quickening in anticipation. Isabela leans in and as her parted lips make first contact, her eyes connect with the mage's. The look they share, the electrified heat of it, makes her moan against Hawke's centre.

She means to keep it slow, make Hawke beg for it, but the taste of the other woman is so delectable that she can't help herself (it's been _months_ , after all; bloody months of innuendo-laden flirting, coy glances and sexual tension so thick she could cut it with one of her blades). Isabela drives her tongue in deep, trying to collect as much of Hawke's essence as she can, slipping in and out of that wonderful, wet space until her jaw starts to ache. Only then does she replace her tongue with her fingers, her other arm pinning Hawke's now erratically bucking hips.

Isabela fucks the mage with a few deep strokes before touching her mouth to Hawke's clit, wrapping her lips around the swollen bud and sucking hard, once, as her fingers curl within Hawke. Hips arc suddenly off the bed, dislodging Isabela's arm, a strangled cry piercing the air as Hawke comes undone, gushing against Isabela's mouth. She takes her time lapping up the spill, keeping her touch light and teasing until she feels fingers threading into her hair, silently urging her up.

She crawls slowly up Hawke's body, pressing damp kisses to every bit of skin within her reach as she goes. It's only when she reaches Hawke's chest, sees her silently shuddering, that she looks up to Hawke's face; the mage's cheeks are wet, tears leaking from beneath closed lids, and the sight of it shocks Isabela.

"Hawke," she says, uncertainly. _Shit_ , this is exactly the sort of thing she'd wanted to avoid.

For a moment she hovers over the other woman, arms braced on either side of Hawke's shoulders. She isn't good at offering comfort, never has the right words to say, but she can't abide seeing Hawke suffer like this. So she lies beside Hawke and pulls her cautiously into her arms, feeling something unfurl within her when Hawke's own arms go around her, clinging on.

She hums a quiet tune, a Rivaini lullaby that her mother used to sing to her as a very young child, as she strokes Hawke's hair. It seems like ages before Hawke's weeping subsides.

Eventually the mage pulls back, wiping her face and gazing at Isabela with sheepish, watery blue eyes; all Isabela can think is that Hawke even cries prettily, which is damn unfair.

"I was trying to make you feel better, not worse," Isabela says with a sardonic roll of her eyes, attempting to lighten the mood.

Hawke's mouth curls slightly. "I know and thank you, for... everything. It was very...." Overcome with bashfulness, she lets the sentence hang. She's still lying in Isabela's arms and when Hawke moves to disentangle herself Isabela finds she's strangely reluctant to let go.

"Yes, it really was. And if you ever want to have a tumble again..." Isabela trails off, falling into comfortable old habits, "you know I'm game."

She can't quite handle the fondness with which the other woman looks at her then, knowing that it's probably reflected in her own gaze. They're playing with fire here - Isabela knows it - but she can't seem to turn away.


End file.
